on grappling

are we simply who we believe ourselves to be?

well, here we are. i guess i really blog now.

i’ve spent quite a bit of time inward lately, as we all have, preoccupied with getting to know the parts of myself i’ve perhaps avoided for my entire life, or perhaps have simply been unfamiliar (i think anyone who has just finished reading Inheritance can likely relate). hours have passed as i’ve sat with myself and the second greatest and most clichè philosophical question of all time:

who am i?

what drives my decision making?

what are my core values?

what does fulfillment mean to me? what about success?

when do i believe i show up as my best self?

with what perspective do i want to move through the world?

the answers that have shown up have shocked me, moved me, and ultimately left me inspired me to go deeper and continue asking myself big questions. but let me tell you, they have not always thrilled me.

a few chapters into Inheritance (Dani Shapiro’s most recent profoundly introspective memoir) she introduces the reader to a Zen meditation made popular by the twentieth-century Indian sage Ramana Maharshi. it goes like this:

❝ The student begins by asking and answering the question: Who am I?

I am a woman. I am a mother. I am a wife. I am a writer. I am a daughter. I am a granddaughter. I am a niece. I am a cousin. I am, I am, I am.

The idea is that eventually, the sense of I am will dissolve. Once we’re past all our many labels and notions of what makes us who we think we are, we will discover that there is no I—no us. This will lead us to a greater understanding of the true nature of impermanence. The exercise is meant to go on long past the most obvious pillars of our identity, the ones beyond question—until we run out of all the ways we think of ourselves. But what does it mean when the I am breaks down at the very beginning of the list? ❞

i too am a woman. i am a daughter, a granddaughter, a niece, a cousin. i am a friend. depending on your sense of the word, i am a sister. i am, i am, i am…

but when my fingers position themselves to type “writer” or “potter” or “artist” my hands freeze and i can’t help but think, what the fuck makes me think that i can call myself an artist?

what makes us who we are?

i’ve known to my core since I was a kid that i was put on this earth to create things, but i’ve been so hyper-obsessed with being smart and practical and proving myself to the world that it has never once occurred to me to call myself an artist out loud. but as my life has been stripped bare, the thing i miss this most is without a doubt my time spent creating.

i’ve missed the pottery studio more than i ever could have imagined i would. i long for the community, the camaraderie, the clay… and i’m coming to realize that i never fully allowed myself to develop a true sense of belonging in the space before letting the voice in my head get in the way:

“who do you think you are? you take a pottery class; you’re not a real artist”

“ it’s not like you went to art school”

“be careful not to spend too much time here, don’t take up too much space - save it for the real potters”

you know the voice. we all have the voice. the voice that tells you that you don’t belong, that you’re not good enough, that you could do more and that you should do it better, too. it’s the voice of shame and fear and doubt. and i’m finally coming to realize that voice is just ego, and fuck that voice, man. that voice is a loser! that voice is holding you back.

we get to decide who we are

i believe we are what brings us fulfillment. we are our experiences. we are how we spend our time and attention, who we choose to show for and how we choose to show up. we are, all, inherently connected.

i am a potter. i am a writer. i am an artist.